The Muster of the Achaians
by l33 Destroyer of Worlds
Summary: The kings of the Hellenes on the eve of the Trojan War. Rated for language.
1. Menelaus at Sparta

She's gone.

The covers are still rumpled from her body; she must have moved quickly and kicked them aside. The chests lie open everywhere, their contents ransacked. Her retinue is gone; they were complicit, or they are afraid of him, or both. The lamps have only been snuffed recently, and one of them still sends up a sad, grey tendril, like the last of a burnt offering. Although the sun is high, outside it is still grey and the rain can't be far distant; Menelaus sits, a prisoner of his own making, in the queen's room, staring out onto the courtyard and trying to think.

She never _seemed_ unhappy. Of course she was kind to Paris and laughed at the Trojan envoy's jokes—she was only being a good hostess. That was what he had thought, or what he had wanted to think. There was nothing improprietous about it; she was never alone with the man.

But was she? When, and how? Who would she have had to bribe? Menelaus cherishes no illusions that his staff are incorruptible, but surely someone would have been loyal enough to him to tell, or to try to get a message to him. (The unskilled slaves scatter like birds when he walks by, and this both unnerves and saddens him.) Where could they have met?

He doesn't want to think about _why_. They didn't marry for love; few people of their rank do. Nonetheless, he cherishes her, and he's tried to be kind to her. He doesn't always understand women very well, and he knows that; there have been times when he's failed to anticipate her wants. Could that have been it? Did he disappoint her in some terrible way that he can't put his finger on? Was it the affair with Lanike? (No, it can't have been—that was a long time ago, and she said she forgave him.)

Brooding, Menelaus turns a ring on his finger over and over again. But if it wasn't him…and then, of course, it dawns on him.

If it wasn't him, perhaps it was Paris.

Yes. That must be it. It's the only thing that makes sense—only a barbarian would be so shameless and impious as to carry off his host's wife. They're not _civilized_ ; they don't _think_ like Achaians. Menelaus has heard that in Asia, guests who admire a possession of their host's are often given it. And Paris did admire Helen, very much; Menelaus is no stranger to the effect his wife's beauty has on men. Since he was less than open-handed when it came to his wife, perhaps Paris decided just to take her? Menelaus wouldn't put it past him.

That must be it. And now that he knows what happened, he knows what to do.

The door is slightly ajar; he hears voices and movement, distantly. Menelaus strides, with new resolution, towards the door and pushes it open, sticking his head out. "Dimas!" he thunders into the hall, startling a couple of the servants. "I want Dimas the Egyptian," he adds by way of explanation. The best and most capable of his scribes, Dimas is usually there before Menelaus needs him.

Sure enough, Dimas comes down the hall a scant few seconds later, ink and paper already in hand. "You called, my lord?" He inclines his head slightly; there has always been something a touch condescending about his manner, though Menelaus can't put his finger on it. No matter. Menelaus needs him now.

"Good man, Dimas." He claps the slave on the shoulder; the Egyptian flinches, but Menelaus doesn't notice. "I have a delicate task for you."

"My lord."

"I want you to take down a letter," Menelaus says. "It's to go to my brother, King Agamemnon, at Mycenae."


	2. Agamemnon at Mycenae

It's the gods' own day—bright and beautiful, not a cloud in the clear blue sky—and Agamemnon has been cloistered with the messenger for most of today, trying to get some sense out of the man. He almost wishes Menelaus would come himself about things like this; fond as he is of his younger brother, Menelaus has no concept of planning or timing. He makes it sound as if it's war already; Agamemnon has explained repeatedly, as patiently as he possibly can (since it is, after all, not the messenger's fault) that it will take time to raise an army, provision it, and get it to Troy, and that's not even addressing what will happen once they get there.

"Tell your master," Agamemnon says, "that while I'm sorry to hear that Helen's run off, and I'll do all I can to help, it's not going to be overnight. While you're headed back to Sparta, I'll send word to Argos—it's the nearest city to me—and get the muster going. Tell him I said to take stock of his men and see how many ships he can reasonably load without straining himself, or the city." Privately, he runs a few mental calculations: seventy-five ought to do for Mycenae. No, eighty. Is that too few? He has to look good, after all; Mycenae isn't a sea power as such, but it wouldn't do for him to set a poor example. People would talk.

He'd ask Clytemnestra, but he has the unnerving feeling that she'll have an answer ready for him, and that it will be exactly the right one. Agamemnon suspects, though he's never been able to prove, that she reads all his mail and intercepts all the messengers.

He chats with the envoy a while longer, repeating the points he wants Menelaus to take away from all of this, before sending him on his way. "You must be tired. Sit a while and rest; I'll have Halaesus fix you up with something to eat. There's no hurry, of course." It's a polite lie. "Ask your master to keep me posted." Clear directions: that's what Menelaus needs.

That's what the entire loosely-knit confederation that calls itself Achaia is going to need, if Agamemnon is completely honest with himself. Well, somebody's got to do it, and he's the man for the task. He sacked Lydia as a young man, after all, and he and Menelaus completely trashed Uncle Thyestes even before that. (Never mind that they were young and green and needed King Tyndareus' help to do it.) Once the kings are made to see the gravity of the situation, they'll recognize that they can't possibly do it without him. There's too much internecine quarreling: Argos against Tiryns, Tiryns against Corinth, everybody against Athens…They _need_ him, for heaven's sake.

After the messenger is seen out, and after he's been poring over old records (he really ought to pull it together and organize a census one of these days; you can't tell _how_ many people are living in Mycenae and environs now), Clytemnestra lets herself in. She is dressed in a peplos as pale as the column next to which she stands, so that he doesn't see her at first, until she moves and says, "Hello."

Agamemnon starts. "Oh! Hello, Clytie, didn't see you. Come on in." He nearly upsets a pile of maps in trying to find a seat for her; her slender arms are strong and sure, and she grips them, pushes them back into place. "Thanks. I, uh, had an envoy from Menelaus today. Did you know your sister's flown the coop?"

Nothing fazes Clytemnestra, and he's disappointed when she betrays no shock; she presses her lips into thin, straight lines, frowning. "She is an utter _idiot_ ," she remarks; her voice is always low, with the faint hint of scorn that seems to pervade it more and more these days. "How abominably stupid and selfish of her."

"I guess it'll be a big mess for your poor dad to clean up," Agamemnon says, and the dark eyes transfix him with an expression he can't name, and isn't sure he likes.

"Rather. And for you too."

He could have _sworn_ she was still abed when the messenger came. "Beg pardon, honey?"

"Don't play the fool with me. It's going to be war now. It can hardly be anything else."

"Well, we can still hope—"

"For glory," Clytemnestra says. "There is none in diplomacy." She smiles smugly, as if to say, _Checkmate_ , and Agamemnon finds himself disarmed. He has been married to her for years; he has never really _known_ her.

Trying to recoup, he shrugs expansively. "We haven't exhausted all the alternatives yet. It's possible this was just—"

"I think not," she says, picking at an imaginary shred of lint on her peplos. "This sort of thing isn't just an _accident_ , Agamemnon, or a _misunderstanding_. This was premeditated."

He'd like to draw her out, take her into his confidence, ask what she thinks; he opens his mouth and finds those dark, brooding eyes on him, and thinks better of it. "I don't…Hey, uh, look, Clytie, someone's got to watch this place when we go to war."

"I should be glad to help, of course," Clytemnestra says.

"I'd be glad of your help." It feels like the first honest thing he's said in a long while. "I…I'll leave you in charge."

Her brows rise, perfect, feathery arches. "Alone?"

"Sure. Look, you're a good manager. And some of Dad's advisers are too old to go; you'd have them if you needed anything."

Clytemnestra thinks, or pretends to think. After a long pause, she says, "If you insist. We must all make sacrifices for the war effort, of course."

Would she really rather be home with the kids? How would he know? "If you don't think you can—"

"No, I shall manage. The alternative is worse." The name hangs unspoken in the air between them. "But I should like you to do one thing before you leave, whenever that will be."

"Anything I can do to help you out, of course." This is familiar territory; Agamemnon leans back, resting a foot on the table leg, hands spread expansively.

"See to Aegisthus, won't you?" She leans in, her voice very low. "He _eyes_ me."


	3. Diomedes at Argos

There's a loud clap of thunder in the clear blue sky.

Diomedes, at sacrifice, tries to check discreetly for chariots; he hears none. A quick glance behind him reassures him that the palace is still there and hasn't collapsed. Around him, the priests and attendants murmur, though not loudly enough to let him hear what they're saying. This is an omen for Argos, for its young King; it can't be anything else.

Diomedes finishes his prayer and allows the priest to come to the altar; the bull nods its head, lowing, as the man approaches, and the cut is quick and clean. A _good_ omen, then. Diomedes can let his breath out, he hopes. Turning and heading back towards his councillors, he catches sight of Aigialia, her face unreadable beneath her veil. He hasn't been King long, hasn't been married to her long; he doesn't know how to read signs, whether they come from the gods or from his wife.

When all is said and completely done, the herald comes running over the green swathe of grass near the temple, almost out of breath. "My lord, there's a visitor here. A messenger from Mycenae. Shall I-?"

Diomedes nearly turns to his uncle, before remembering that the old man is dead and has been for some time. It's up to him, now. "Yes. Tell him I'll meet him in the megaron. See that he's given something to eat and a little time to rest." It befits kings to show hospitality; Zeus is pleased with such. This at least is a safe way to begin.

Later, when a decent time has passed – enough for the messenger to refresh himself – Diomedes meets him in the megaron, which is dim and grey, not ideally situated for sun. Aigialia is not here; she has no interest in politics and does not interfere in these matters. He inclines his head, as if to indicate that the herald may speak.

"Helen's disappeared," the man says. "King Menelaus thinks she's gone to Troy. His brother, Agamemnon, wants to know if you can be counted on to uphold the oath you took." Pausing, he looks about him. It's a sudden, sad surprise to see how many of the young King's companions and councillors are old men: the war at Thebes wasn't that long ago.

"Naturally," Diomedes says. "I'm accustomed to regard my word as binding." He was hardly more than a boy when he courted Helen, quite taken with himself after the sack of Thebes; he can barely remember what he was thinking now. No one forgets that kind of beauty, but it seems, now, that it was a foregone conclusion that she should marry Menelaus, who is dead average from all that Diomedes has seen of him.

He doesn't know how the others would have reacted, but he thinks, if it were Aigialia who had run off with a barbarian, he'd have killed her.

He will be busy with Agamemnon's heralds for most of the afternoon. There's no question what will happen at Argos: Diomedes, too, took the oath, and he's never been one to shrink from a fight. He was hardly more than a boy when he and the others laid Thebes low, and the elders who remember Tydeus, not _so_ many years ago, have no doubt that he will lay Troy low, too.


	4. Nestor at Pylos

The great hall at Pylos is dark and smoky, and smells of dogs and weaponry; Nestor is the last man standing from the age of heroes. There is great noise and clamor, and there are puppies and children and slaves underfoot; Halaesus, who has been coordinating this for days, doesn't even know where to turn or where Nestor might be found, and trips himself up, knocks into people, and makes several wrong turns before one of the teenaged boys finally takes pity on him and shouts for DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD. Nestor, who has been sitting before the fire like any ordinary old man, shouts back, "You don't have to yell! I'm not deaf, you know. In my day, boys your age…" The boy nods, rolling his eyes, and gestures to the herald.

"Dad. This is Halaesus," the boy shouts. "He came all the way from Mycenae, from King Agamemnon."

"I'm not deaf," Nestor snaps as he stiffly rises to his feet, "and I'm not stupid, either. I hope you made him at home, Stratichos. We don't want this gentleman to think he's fallen into a barbarians' nest, do we?"

"There's no time," Halaesus says. "Like your son said, I came from Mycenae, on urgent business." He eyes the old man dubiously; Nestor seems lucid enough, but who knows how lucid he really is? "I don't know if you recall when King Menelaus married Princess Helen—"

"Yes, yes," Nestor says, waving a hand impatiently. "Now, me, I was too old to go chasing after a pretty young girl like that, but a couple of Stratichos' older brothers – Stratichos. Where is Thrasymedes, anyway?"

"Um, Dad, I don't –" the boy begins.

"As I was saying. Thrasymedes and Echephron both went after her, and obviously neither was the right man for the job. You win some, you lose some. What was it you were saying about Princess Helen, now?"

Halaesus feels his throat suddenly go dry, and then says, "Um. I. Um, I don't know if the news has reached you yet." Suddenly, the hall is very silent, and he can feel all eyes on him, which is disturbing. "Queen Helen, she is now, has been abducted by Paris of Troy, and King Agamemnon wants to remind your sons of their oath."

"Awww, fuck," a tall man in his early thirties says, coming in and unbuckling his greaves before the fire. "I knew that damn thing would come around to bite us both in the ass."

"I've never seen Troy," one of the younger boys says from the corner, where he appears to be messing with some old armor.

"ANTILOCHUS YOU AREN'T GOING SO YOU JUST PUT THAT OUT OF YOUR HEAD," Nestor shouts at him, ignoring the cry of _but Daaaaaaaaaad_ that follows. "YOU ARE TOO YOUNG TO GO GALLIVANTING ACROSS TO ASIA. Echephron, _where is Thrasymedes_? I've been looking for him all morning. Back when I was your age, I wouldn't have dreamed of going out without so much as a by-your-leave to my father."

"I'm thirty-one, Dad," Echephron mutters, and mouths the word _Sorry_ to Halaesus. "Hey, Antilochus, jump up and go see where Thrass is." When Antilochus has returned, sulkily, with his brother in tow, and Halaesus finally manages to make them understand the situation in its entirety, there is a long conference; Echephron and Thrasymedes both have reasonably intelligent questions about duration and logistics and whether this has proceeded past the planning stage. Stratichos says it's not his fight, and his father swats him.

"Technically, he's right," Thrasymedes says. "Echephron and I are the only ones who took the oath, so we're really the only ones who have to go. It would be a terrible shame if something happened to Stratichos at his age, and we wouldn't want to put you in danger." He puts a tentative hand on his father's shoulder.

"That's nonsense," Nestor says, shaking his head. "Do you know how long it's been since I had a good adventure?"

"Dad, you were on the _Argo_. That's glory enough for any man," Echephron says, trading worried glances with his brother and Halaesus. "No one would think ill of you for staying at home."

"Well, aren't I still the King?" Nestor shouts, rising to his feet with none of an old man's unsteadiness, and the look on his face is so ferocious that the young men shrink back. "Don't I still have the right? Do you think I just want to sit on my ass and wait for the end? I've had a full life, and if an arrow gets me in the Troad, at least I didn't go gently!" To Halaesus, he says, "You'll spend the night here, of course. Thrasymedes and I will look over our records, and before you leave tomorrow, I'll let you know how many men we can spare. We're not a huge throng here at Pylos, but we can do something for you."


	5. Tlepolemos at Rhodes

Halaesus is half-seasick when he reaches Rhodes, and grateful that the King is too busy to see him today. He's not sure what to expect; everyone knows whose son Tlepolemos is. He has no reputation for bad temper, so perhaps he's more Astyoche's son than Herakles', but nonetheless, the bloodline makes the herald a little nervous.

On the second day, Tlepolemos comes for him himself, and says, "Walk with me in the garden. We'll discuss business there." Despite its being bad manners, Halaesus can't help but scrutinize his face, looking for signs of resemblance. His generation is too young to remember Herakles – too young to remember before the Tantalids, at that, even if Eurystheus reigned in Mycenae in those days. The world is smaller and duller, and it has lost something. All the great deeds have been done; they are left to sing of them.

The business they discuss begins as small talk – casual mention of building projects, festivals, successions – and then Tlepolemos says, "I hear it's going to be war now."

"Agamemnon hasn't made that determination yet," Halaesus says. They both know it's a lie.

"Hasn't he?" Tlepolemos says, raising an eyebrow. "I don't see this ending in reasoned diplomacy." He shakes his head and looks at his hands, turning the royal signet on one finger. "I'm not my father. He would have gone charging in to break some Trojan heads. He _did_ go charging in to break some Trojan heads." Halaesus is amazed that he ever forgot this – Telamon of Salamis fathered a son on a Trojan princess, and it was Herakles who helped him get her. "I know that disappoints people. They hear 'Tlepolemos, son of Herakles', and they expect to see someone built like an Olympian." They make their second circuit around the garden. "I used to have my father's temper. It really fucked things up for me and the people around me, and I decided I wasn't going to live like that anymore."

"The god says _Know thyself_ ," Halaesus says, watching the bees suck nectar from the roses that climb the trellises at the outer corners of the garden.

"He doesn't tell you how difficult that can really be." Tlepolemos comes to a halt, scuffing one foot. "Listen, I took the oath and I consider myself bound by it."

"Your loyalty is commendable," Halaesus says. "But it has to be backed up, you know."

"I'm aware of that. But as you see, Rhodes is a small polis. We can't afford to spare all our available manpower."

Halaesus laughs. "I don't think we're so desperate that we need old men and little boys to swell our ranks. Exempt the ones who are customarily exempted, draft the rest. We should be able to manage on that." Tlepolemos looks dubious. "This isn't going to be a long war, you know. We should be able to go to the Troad, give them a short, sharp shock, have it under Achaian control, and be back in the spring."

"They say there are prophecies surrounding this war," Tlepolemos says. "I don't think it's going to be a short one."

"Ye of little faith," Halaesus says. If he were more self-aware, he might realize that he has begun to sound like Agamemnon. "Look, if you don't have that many men you can spare, then I'll pass that on to Agamemnon. We're not going to ask anyone to ruin his city for us. The Argolid and Sparta are more than able to make up the diference."

"I can give you eight ships, if I stretch," Tlepolemos says. "It might be nine. But I _will_ stand with you in this. I won't have anyone say that Herakles' son was war-shy."


	6. Menestheus at Athens

The Athenian assembly is the most terrifying thing Halaesus has ever seen in his entire life. All he wanted to do was talk to the King, and he was told that the assembly would have to convene. Menestheus is a distant, disapproving figure, and the old men of the assembly, whose memories of everything _but_ Theseus have grown dim, frown and shake their heads when they see him enter their meetingplace. Halaesus is used to speaking as aide to king, sometimes as Agamemnon's mouthpiece to king, and his voice is quiet and halting when he explains to Menestheus what is happening. He can feel their eyes on him, and it frightens him; they are Greeks just as he is. He needs no interpreter to speak to them. At every other city, he spoke to the king, and the king saw to it that things were done, although he might ask the assembly for its opinion; here, the assembly masters the king, it seems.

Menestheus listens to him, and the man's face is unreadable; he is clean-shaven, although he cannot be young anymore. The assembly buzzes with an undercurrent of talk; Halaesus tries to swallow back his panic and repress the urge to run screaming out of the Agora, never to be seen again. He finds it calms him to focus on the king's impassive face, and manages to come, stuttering, to the end of his narrative, rather more abruptly and lamely than he'd like. This has to be the most half-assed job he's ever done for Agamemnon, who would snort and shake his head if he were here to see it. But there's no way to put a fine point on it: these people scare him.

The king points out a chair for him, and Halaesus sits down, sweating and panting, grateful for the shade and the seclusion; now that he's more himself, he notices that he has an unimpeded view of the assembly, and watches them as Menestheus gives a brief summing-up speech in their odd, Attic dialect. "I will see a vote," Menestheus finishes, and Halaesus, curious, watches them. He's not sure how they're going to do it. He's never seen this done, or heard of it being done anywhere else. Some of the younger men grasp the heavy amphorae that stand close to hand behind the speaker's podium; another grabs what appears to be a heavy box, judging by his grunt when he picks it up, and they pick their way slowly through the seats of the assembly, the man with the box going first and the men with the urns coming behind. One by one, each assemblyman casts something into one jar or another; Menestheus himself is last of all.

Despite himself, Halaesus is drawn in. They probably don't _need_ Athens to win this war, but it certainly wouldn't hurt to have her manpower solidly behind them, and he can't help thinking that Theseus wouldn't have passed up the opportunity. The voting seems to take a very long time, though it can't be more than an hour. The younger men spill the contents of the urns out in front of the king, counting rapidly according to some formula that probably makes sense only to an Athenian. They confer briefly with Menestheus, and Halaesus can hear his heart pounding, almost as if he has something at stake. He thinks he might die if there's going to be a recount.

Menestheus turns to him, and says in a loud, ringing voice, "We are in favor." Halaesus shuts his eyes and lets his breath out; he hadn't even known he was holding it. _Thank you, thank you, thank you,_ he thinks to some unknown god. In a lower voice, the king says to him, "Of course you'll stay and refresh yourself. We're not barbarians, to send you back to Mycenae without drink or a bath."

Later, as they socialize in the great hall, Halaesus says, "I have to know. What would have happened if the assembly had voted against?"

Menestheus looks into his cup. "Mm. Well, we wouldn't be able to send an official detachment. The assembly would have spoken, and there's no way around that. It's the law."

"What would _you_ have done?" Halaesus says.

Menestheus' cheek twitches in the beginnings of a wry smile. "I'd probably have come with my kinsmen and the men in our households. It couldn't be official, you understand, but I did take the oath."

"You're not so different after all, then."

The king snorts. "What do you take me for?"


	7. Ajax at Lokris

The Prince has gone hunting for boar, and Halaesus is left to explain the nature of the oath to Oileus, a hawk-nosed old man who glares at him and tells him to SPEAK UP, YOU WRETCHED LITTLE DORMOUSE, and then asks him to repeat himself. By the time the sky has gone grey and the rain has started to come, Halaesus finally makes him understand that his son swore an oath and the Atreidai are now calling upon him to honor it.

"WELL IT'S MY MEN AND MY SHIPS AND MY SON," Oileus says. Every time he says anything, it sounds like he's yelling at people. If he can't hear, Halaesus thinks, rubbing his own temples ruefully, he's probably not a very good judge of the volume of his own voice. It would have been easier if he could just have caught Ajax on his own and explained it to him in private, and then left father and son to hash out the details. Nothing on this entire trip has gone right. Agamemnon almost came himself for Ajax, but changed his mind upon realizing that water would have to be crossed. It's just as well; he'd die of apoplexy if he had to deal with Oileus. Maybe the old king has selective hearing.

"Perhaps your son could come as the head of the Lokrian detachment," Halaesus says, wringing his hands behind his back. "No one is suggesting that you endanger yourself in this manner, after all. It's just – "

Oileus isn't biting. "HE'S MY SON AND HE'S NOT GOING ANYWHERE IF I FORBID IT."

Halaesus sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, looking uncommonly like Agamemnon as he does so. "He took the oath along with the rest of Helen's suitors. My master would really have to insist."

"WELL, HE CAN COME HERE AND FIGHT ME, THEN. OR SEND HIS OWN SON. SEE HOW HE LIKES THAT."

"That would hardly be practicable," Halaesus mutters. "Prince Orestes is an infant."

"WHAT? SPEAK UP, GOD DAMN YOU."

"Dad, are you yelling at this poor man?" Ajax isn't in his first youth, Halaesus realizes with a shock – he must be thirty, or close to it. His profile, a younger version of his father's, gleams bronze in the firelight, and so does his armor; his hands are deft and sure as they unlace his greaves. "Pardon our manners, stranger."

"ARE YOU DONE HUNTING? THIS YOUNG WHELP HAS A PROPOSAL TO PUT TO YOU. SOMETHING ABOUT OATS, HE SAID." Ajax looks nonplussed as he turns towards them, and Halaesus mouths the word _oath_ , which draws a nod of understanding from the prince. "HE KEEPS SAYING HE HAS TO INSIST."

"Dad, I swore an oath. This man is a herald from Mycenae, and he came to ask me to make good."

"WHAT? NOT YOU TOO. SPEAK UP."

"DAD," Ajax shouts, tugging his father's chiton, "GO IN AND SIT BY THE FIRE. WE'RE GOING TO TALK BUSINESS." Oileus glares at his son and has to be shaken, but is finally prevailed upon to go into the great hall, though not before being cautioned by his father not to buy any oats without permission. Ajax rolls his eyes when the old man is safely gone, but sits down, knees apart, and grips Halaesus' hands. "Let's talk shop."

Halaesus gives him the quick and dirty version of what's been decided and where he's been and who's agreed to what. "Your father seems disinclined to let you go." A little unnerved, he shrugs. "That's understandable. I'm sure I would too if I were him." Ajax raises one dark eyebrow. "But…he is the King here, so I wanted to make sure—"

"Dad talks a good game," Ajax says. "He won't like it, but he'll see I have to go. We're no different from any other Hellenes, here in Lokris." He shrugs. "Besides, I'd rather join up now and listen to him yell and rant for a couple of days than stay here and have him yell at me about why I'm not in Troy helping my country. You can't win with Dad. Let me handle him; I'm the only one who knows how." Cocksure, he tosses his head. "I'll get back to you in the morning, once we've come to some kind of agreement."


	8. Ajax at Salamis

Agamemnon has been violently seasick all the way over from the Argolid, and Halaesus is starting to question whether this was a good idea. He stayed away from Lokris, which was probably for the best, considering how prickly Ajax and Oileus were; it wouldn't have killed him to stay away from Salamis. He's probably working up to some of the other islands; already, rumors have reached the mainland that the King of Ithaka has suddenly and inexplicably gone quite mad. "I bet I know what kind of madness he has," Agamemnon says, in between heaving over the bow. "He's always been a slippery little shit." The ship tilts a little with the waves, and the color drains from Agamemnon's face; he bends over again, retching violently. "He's not going to slip through _my_ fingers this time."

 _What if he really is mad?_ Halaesus thinks, but says nothing. They have Salamis to tackle, and Telamon is every bit as crusty and stubborn as Agamemnon.

By the time they make landfall, Agamemnon has mostly recovered. Salaminian hospitality is nothing to complain about, although Halaesus isn't sure how they'll be received – the more remote the king, the more resistant he seems to any talk of Troy. When Telamon finally sits down to dinner with them, he wants to talk about nothing else. "Now I'm not what I was once," he says, pointing his knife at them in between bites of roast fish, "but back then, when men were men, I helped Herakles scale the walls. That was in old Laomedon's time. I'm not sure who the king there is now – "

"Priam," Agamemnon says. He's set his cup and plate aside and listens intently, eyes fixed on the old man, almost like a boy listening to hero-tales in the winter. "Believe that's his son."

"Mm. As I was saying, I nearly got a spear through my ribs, I tell you what. Herakles wasn't one to brook rivalry." He chuckles and shakes his head. "But I did all right for myself out of it. I did all right. Came home, I did, and got the best war prize out of it." He gestures towards the old woman at the hearth. "Not much to look at now, but back then…ah, she was beautiful." The old woman turns sharply, as if she's just figured out that they're talking about her, and in the dim light, they can see that she must have been, once. "Shame about the boy, but he could have turned out worse. A strong hand, that's what you need with these barbarians."

"Don't I know it," Agamemnon says. "This is Ajax's mother, then?"

"Oh, no," Telamon says, waving a hand. "No. Periboea's in the women's quarters tonight, she's got one of her headaches. Do you know, someone had the effrontery to send me a letter demanding that I send Hesione there back? Paid no attention. It was a forgery, obviously." Halaesus feels a chill: was Helen some kind of revenge for Hesione, then? "I'm too old for this kind of thing, but you'll want the boy, I've no doubt of that. AJAX!" Telamon stands, drawn up to his full, great height, and gestures to an even taller young man far down the end of the table, clustered with the younger men. "C'mere, these gentlemen want to talk to you."

"I'm here, Dad." The voice is low, meek, almost dull. The young giant crosses the room easily and stands with head bowed before his father.

"This is my pride and joy, and the succor of my old age." Telamon grins broadly, slapping the younger man on the back. "Gentlemen, this is my boy, Ajax." Ajax murmurs a greeting and looks at them shyly before turning away. "Where's that worthless-ass brother of yours, boy?"

"Teucer," Ajax calls. "Dad wants you!" Agamemnon cranes his head, despite knowing it's bad manners; he's curious to see what the Trojan woman's son looks like. The young man who stands up and climbs over a tangle of legs to join his father and half-brother looks almost like any other Greek; he shares Ajax's fairer coloring, though not the height. There's something vaguely foreign in the shape of the eyes, the long nose, but Agamemnon wouldn't know if Hesione hadn't been pointed out to him, and in any case, he's suitably impressed by Teucer's manner: the young man is open, forthright, greets them and asks for news from the mainland. Something about this makes Telamon glower a little bit, as if his son is speaking out of turn, but Agamemnon can't complain. He'd be pleased if Orestes grew up to have such manners.

"They do you credit, Telamon." Telamon snorts, as if all pleasure is at an end for him. "Well, I'll be brief. You boys probably took an oath for Helen some time back." Teucer nods, face impassive, and Ajax, uncertain, gives a jerky nod, as if he's not sure that Agamemnon has the right house. "I'm here to ask you to make good on it. The news has probably reached Salamis by now, but in case you don't know, she was carried off to Troy by Prince Paris some weeks ago. I've sent messengers." Halaesus is relieved that he wasn't one; Egypt might be worth seeing, but Troy is not a place he's ever wanted to go, and it's probably like a hedge of flaming thorns for the messengers there now. "I'm still waiting to hear back, and it's still possible this won't come to anything, but as a pre-emptive measure, I'm mobilizing Achaia."

"Menelaus can't do it for himself?" Teucer frowns. The look on Agamemnon's face is so fearsome that he almost recoils. "Sir. I meant no insult, just curious."

"He's my brother. We're a team." Ajax seems to relax a little, as if this is something he understands. "I'm the elder and have broader connections." Teucer nods. "You'll want to talk to your dad about what he can afford to send with you, as far as ships and men."

"I'll get the figures," Halaesus says. "At least that way King Telamon will know what everyone else agreed to." He darts into the guest room, grateful for any excuse to get out of the main hall. It's as tense as anything in there.

After dinner, when the tables have been moved and Telamon dozes intermittently while the bard sings, Ajax gives his father an adoring, fearful look, of the kind Agamemnon remembers bestowing on his own father. Telamon has dozed off in the worst part of the song, and his head is back, his mouth open like an old man's as he snores wheezily. _He_ is _an old man_ , Agamemnon thinks with a start as he looks around; Halaesus has the charts spread out and is gabbling away, and Teucer watches the bard, his face unreadable. Ajax leans over and plucks Agamemnon's elbow. "Um. Hey. King Agamemnon?"

Agamemnon smiles at him, the fake, political smile he uses when he's trying to win friends and influence people. "What is it?"

"You'll take Teucer too when we set out for Troy, won't you?" Ajax looks uncertain and solemn, the dark eyes fixed on him and the mouth twisted in a frown. "He's a really good archer. You wouldn't have to worry about him doing anything wrong."

"I'm sure of it. He took the oath, didn't he?"

Ajax nods. "It's just…Dad doesn't like that Teucer is a better archer than me." He looks at the ground and chews his lip for a while, before looking Agamemnon in the face. "I mean, I'm good at a lot of things too. But I wouldn't want to go without Teucer." He squares his shoulders. "He's my brother. We're a team."


	9. Odysseus at Ithaka

Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

The sky is red and shines like the gilded horns on the cows they offer for sacrifice every year in the spring, and this time, Agamemnon's legs are a little steadier when he sets foot on Ithakan soil. Odysseus is supposed to have been completely insane for weeks now; Agamemnon isn't sure whether he should credit some of the wilder stories he's heard about the mad king's excesses. They sound too much like the kind of propaganda Odysseus would circulate if he _wanted_ people to think he was mad.

It takes little effort to get from the harbor to the palace, where they are greeted frostily by Penelope. She may be own cousin to Clytemnestra, but the family resemblance isn't there, other than in the dark hair and the burning eyes. "I half-expected this," the Queen says, as she lays bread and oil before them. "You'll have to excuse the lack of wine. We ran afoul of the Earth-shaker and some of the cellars were completely ruined." Sitting in an antique chair, old even in Laertes' boyhood, she crosses her legs and says, "I'd be lying if I said I was happy to see you."

"Pen, he did swear the oath."

"I know that." Penelope frowns and smooths back her hair. "I don't suppose you've heard back from your messengers yet."

Agamemnon shakes his head. "Brief dispatches. It's not looking good." He frowns, sizing Penelope up. Is she in on it? Why wouldn't she be? Clytemnestra would be, if it were him, but who can say? "How long has Odysseus been mad?"

"Weeks," Penelope says, biting off the word as if it's a mouthful of thread. "Since well before you got here. You've missed the worst of it, actually. Yesterday, he climbed on the table during council, stripped off his clothes, and ran about on all fours in the courtyard, barking like a dog."

Agamemnon sighs. "Look, Penelope, we're kinsmen, we can speak frankly. Is he faking it?"

Penelope leans on one elbow, appraising Agamemnon, before shaking her head and sighing. "God, I hope so."

Palamedes is supposed to land later today; hopefully they can get to the bottom of this mess together. In the meantime, Halaesus goes to visit the swineherd and the steward, who both tell him that Odysseus is completely insane and has, in fact, yoked a bull and a mule to the plow, against the _strong_ objections of the cattleherd who told him that it was going to list heavily to one side and get nothing done. The animals apparently also objected to such undignified treatment, although Halaesus didn't hear the particulars. The swineherd, obligingly and probably also in hopes of a tip, leads them to the seashore and points the King out; he's not a tall man, and the bull almost dwarfs his figure as he struggles to push the plow through the wet, sandy soil of the beach. Over his shoulder is thrown a bag, like the ones farmers use during the sowing, and he tosses out handfuls of salt.

"Good morning, Odysseus," Agamemnon calls.

"Gotta get the plowing done!" Odysseus yells back. If he recognizes Agamemnon, he gives no sign. "Gotta have this finished by nightfall!"

"Uh…all right." Maybe the thing to do is meet a madman on his own level. Agamemnon doesn't know. He's never known anyone who was mad before. "What are you planting?"

"Death," Odysseus says, throwing another large handful of salt in the general direction of the Mycenaeans. For good measure, he grabs another fistful and tosses it out to sea. "'Scuse me. Gotta get the plowing done. Gotta be done by sunset!"

"Um…if you say so."

All of Agamemnon's further conversation in this vein proves unfruitful, but he can't tear his eyes away, even when Odysseus suddenly rushes at him and berates him for sending evil thoughts to the seed because it will shrivel the plants up. This leaves Agamemnon rattled, and he feels tremendous relief when Penelope leads Palamedes out to meet him. She is holding a baby, to which Palamedes coos from time to time, in that ingratiating ox-salesman way he has. Agamemnon vaguely remembers Clytemnestra saying something about Penelope's baby, but he doesn't recall the details. "Palamedes. Glad you're here."

"Has he been like this all day?" Palamedes says. Agamemnon nods.

"All _month_ , more like," Penelope says.

"Hmm," Palamedes says. "Here, let me take the little boy with me." He bounces the baby as he carries it down the seashore to meet Odysseus. Agamemnon can't see what exactly happens, but one minute Palamedes stoops down and another he doesn't _have_ the baby (which causes Penelope to gasp sharply), and then Odysseus' voice yells, "FUCK! SHIT! MOTHERFUCKER!". The plow speeds on down the beach, the animals galloping and bellowing in relief at their sudden liberation, and Palamedes comes rushing up the seashore towards Agamemnon, with a snarling Odysseus in hot pursuit.

"YOU GODDAMNED SON OF A BITCH. I WILL GUT YOU IF IT'S THE LAST THING I EVER DO. HOW DARE YOU PULL A STUNT LIKE THAT." Salt gushes out of the bag in white, powdery gales. Odysseus takes a swing with his left hand – the right is cradling the baby, which has started to cry. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU."

Agamemnon folds his arms and leans back. "Insane, are you?"

"Quite mad." Odysseus looks from one face to another, patting and rocking the baby. "Uh…who are you people, again?"


	10. Patroclus at Phthia

_I miss you. Let me know how you're holding up. I hear it's going to be war out there. If I can, I'm going to find some way to escape this place and I'll meet you wherever you want._

Patroclus sighs and lets the letter drop in his lap, thumb rolling idly over the rough flecks in the papyrus – it's one of the lesser pressings, not the good stuff that all goes to the airy palaces at Knossos and Mycenae, but the kind of damaged goods that arrive at the bottom of a dusty wagon after it's rattled up the long, rocky road to Phthia. Apparently, Skyros doesn't get anything much better. Achilles' grandiose promises have been written with a pen so hard that it scores through the paper, right through Patroclus' heart. It's a terrible burden to be so loved, sometimes.

He jerks at the touch of a hand on his shoulder, and almost stupidly blurts, _Achilles?_ It's not Achilles, of course, although there is much of the choleric young prince in his father's face. "Uh. Uncle Peleus. Hey."

"Patroclus." The older man's brows furrow. "There are some gentlemen here to see you."

"Thanks. I'll go out to meet them." Patroclus has only recently grown into his full height and hasn't yet become accustomed to his hands and feet, which feel outsize; he knocks over that afternoon's hunting spear and upsets a jug full of water on his way to the courtyard. By the time he's stopped to help clean it up, the gentlemen have clearly been waiting for some time; one of them looks bored and has been pulling up grass, and he fixes Patroclus with a scowl. The other, who is shorter and seems more energetic, treads quickly across the lawn to meet him.

"Patroclus? Son of Menoitios?"

"That's me." He barked his elbow on something on the way out, and rubs it gingerly.

"Good to meet you. I'm Odysseus." The shorter man grins and indicates his glum companion. "That's Diomedes, son of Tydeus. We're here about the war." Dropping his voice conspiratorially, he adds, "Unless the news hasn't reached you up here."

"You don't need to talk down to me," Patroclus says. "We've heard about it even in Phthia." He swats a buzzing gnat away from his ear. "We've also heard about _you_ in Phthia."

Odysseus, unrattled, shrugs. "Word travels fast. I wouldn't believe everything I heard if I were you, though."

Fair enough. Patroclus looks at them, frowning. "Is there a draft?"

"What?" Diomedes says, rolling his eyes.

"No question is a stupid one," Odysseus says, pinching Diomedes as he and Patroclus pass him. "No, we're not desperate. We should be adequately equipped, and no universal draft is expected."

"Give Agamemnon like six months," Diomedes mutters, pulling up grass.

"No dissension in the ranks." Odysseus gives Diomedes a rather hard thump on the head, which causes him to curse and rub his head while he glares at them.

"I was just wondering," Patroclus says, "because I know about Queen Helen and everything that went on around that time, but I would have been too young to go after her." He grins. "Actually, I still thought girls were pretty gross at the time." Odysseus laughs, almost paternally. "So, I…I'm sorry, but I just, I'm not sure why you're coming after _me_. I never took the oath."

"Because you're fucking Achilles," Diomedes says. "Or you were fucking him, at one time."

" _What_?" Patroclus' jaw drops. He supposes, taken in their strictest literal sense, that the Argive's words are true, but he's never heard anyone say it so baldly. Diomedes almost makes it sound tawdry, dirty, and Patroclus isn't sure he likes that.

"Forgive my untutored companion here," Odysseus says. "There _is_ a prophecy that would seem to indicate we'll be unable to take Troy without Prince Achilles. I understand he's holed up on Skyros, now?"

"Involuntarily, from all I hear," Patroclus says, "but yes."

"Involuntarily," Diomedes says. "Makes our job that much easier."

"Don't underestimate the uses of subterfuge," Odysseus says, smiling broadly. "Anyway. If it should transpire that our prince is reluctant to come forth from his island hideaway, we may require your help. I understand from your uncle that the two of you have a special relationship." There's nothing unpleasant about the way he says it, and Patroclus finds his ruffled feathers already smoothed.

"I've got a letter of his," Patroclus says, fumbling at his belt. "You can read it, if you want. I'm pretty sure he's itching to be gone."

"Good to know the enemy," Odysseus says.

"What?" Diomedes says again, dropping his handful of uprooted grass and staring. "I thought we were going to recruit him."

"Diomedes, Diomedes," Odysseus says, shaking his head. "Any time you have to get someone to do something, they are your enemy. You have to seduce them." He looks at Patroclus, one eyebrow raised wryly. "Or _you_ do, in this particular case."

"I don't think it's going to be that difficult," Patroclus says. Diomedes snorts. "Not seducing him, I mean. You won't have to work that hard to get him to leave. Like I said, he doesn't _want_ to be there in the first place."

"Not that I have any reason to doubt you," Odysseus says, "but I'd prefer to find out for myself. One can't believe what one doesn't see with one's own eyes, and sometimes it's open to question even then." He scrutinizes Patroclus, and despite the affable exterior, there's something a little shrewd and cold in the dark eyes. "We'll be on Skyros in the near future, I should think. You coming?" 


	11. Idomeneus at Knossos

The sun reflects off the blindingly white buildings clustered in Knossos, that teeming, crowded city, and Idomeneus, who is not in his first youth, retreats into the cool darkness of the palace to receive Halaesus. He's still blinking back the afterimages from his eyes some minutes later, and hopes this won't end with an old age spent in blindness. Halaesus doesn't notice his host's tic; he's too busy examining the frescoes on the palace walls. Idomeneus has not been to Achaia in many years – he was a boy, going with his father to curry favor with the lords of the Peloponnese – but as he recalls, the houses on the mainland are less vital than his own.

It is a strange thing to be Achaian, and yet not. There is much in their cultures that is similar, but there is an older strain, perhaps a foreign strain, in Crete, and it has never faded. On the mainland, the _tholoi_ seem only the crude scrabblings of a child, playing with clay and sticks; these palaces were built for the fathers of the fathers of Minos, his grandfather. (Idomeneus barely remembers the old king and can only recall him in flashes here and there of sudden, irrelevant memory. Perhaps someday this adventure, too, will be nothing but such a memory.)

"I never figured old King Minos for such a lech," Halaesus says, grinning at one particular fresco of bare-breasted women, their hair trailing over their shoulders like seaweed, black eyes big and flirtatious.

"That's how Cretan women dress," Idomeneus snaps, and immediately regrets it when Halaesus tenses and sniffs. "I'm sorry," he says in calmer tones. "I forget, of course, that you're not used to our norms."

"No need," Halaesus says, waving a hand as he's seen Agamemnon do. "I was out of line." He feels almost generous. They're almost done, after all. He has only to convince Idomeneus, and then there's only that last island. Agamemnon will set Odysseus to it; the Ithacan is crafty, and will know how to come at it best.

"Let it pass. To business." Idomeneus mounts the throne, the alabaster cool and reassuring beneath his back. "Have a seat." He gestures, and the herald sits, somewhat awkwardly, on one of the benches. "I haven't spoken with Agamemnon in years. He must want something, if he's sending to me."

"He does, my lord." Idomeneus may not be quite a Hellene, but some things are the same, regardless of culture. "Well, King Menelaus wants something. You remember, of course, that you once swore an oath to protect the husband of Helen of Sparta?"

That was almost a lifetime ago. He wasn't young even then, and he remembers losing interest in Helen almost as soon as he set eyes on her – she was very beautiful, of course, but far too young, and he knew she would never want to be with someone like him. It's as well. Idomeneus has always preferred Cretan women, and he fell in love with one and ended up marrying her. Meda is as vibrant as the blue water and the yellow crocuses that the women harvest for Athena in the springtime; she is as loud as the roar of a bull in the arena and as fierce as a snake, and at night, next to her, he regrets nothing. Helen has never crossed his mind in all these years. "I recall doing something of the kind, yes."

"We're asking you to make good on that oath. Helen has been abducted."

Paris of Troy stopped at Crete to refuel. Idomeneus feels his heart beat faster, as if his doom is sneaking up on him. What does Agamemnon know? He can't suspect anything, surely, since they are merely asking that he fulfill the oath he swore. "I…had heard something to that effect. One is never sure how much credence to give a traveler's tale."

Halaesus half-smirks. "No, I daresay not. Could you mobilize Crete, if called upon?"

"I'd have to." The words fall from his lips as easily as the sentence of doom must have fallen on the Athenian youths, generations back. "You understand, I couldn't give you all our seapower. We must have something to protect ourselves in my absence."

"Of course. King Agamemnon doesn't ask that you leave Crete undefended, only that you assist when called upon. Now, if I may ask…" Idomeneus listens with only half an ear; he fancies he can hear the waves crashing on the beach not one stade from the palace, the death-cries of the Athenian youths two generations ago and more, the foreign sounds of Troy, with which he has often had to do but where he has never been. All things form a cycle; all imbalances right themselves.

Once, the Hellenes came to Crete. Now, Crete goes to the Hellenes.


	12. Achilles at Skyros

Skyros is nothing but grey: the sky is a dull, weak grey, almost the color of lead. The rocks are grey, and dark with rain, and the waves that crash endlessly against them are equally as grey, though their coloring, shot through with white, seems more ominous in tone. Not far from King Lykomedes' palace, there stands the cliff from which he supposedly pushed Theseus. Achilles isn't sure whether he believes this story or not; Skyros was probably too small to hold Theseus, and it is definitely too small to hold him. Maybe the hero went crazy one day after the sound of the waves and the gulls got to be too much for him, and took a flying leap off the rocks and into eternity.

Achilles thinks he might follow him. He can't get away from the waves and the gulls. The only thing that stops him, at the moment, is the fact that it's too wet to do anything outside and that girls' shoes aren't as sturdy as men's. Also, women's clothes, which he's stuck in when there's company or he's outside the palace, are _beyond_ inconvenient for running in.

Who looked at this place and thought, _yes, we'll settle here_ , anyway? Phthia is green and hilly, golden with the first and last light, and cut through with rivers, and you can ride everywhere on a Centaur's back. Where is old Chiron now, what is he doing? Where is Patroclus?

Frowning, he drums his fingers idly on the windowsill. If a long, undistinguished life is going to be anything like this, then for the love of Zeus he hopes the chance to fight presents itself. And if not, he'll _make_ it happen. He'll write to Patroclus. (He's already written, more times than he cares to think about.) He'll hide away on one of the merchant ships that often put in at Skyros when they're blown off-course. (Whatever Lykomedes was when he was young, he must fear Zeus more now: he never takes advantage of stranded merchants, or allows the locals to profit from wrecks.) Even if they go down in the wine-dark sea, that would be preferable to the greyness of Skyros and this disguise that fools no one.

The door creeks open, and Deidamia enters. The two are frankly not believable as sisters: she is big, blonde, and buxom, and can play at charm when it pleases her. He is wary and scowling, and, much to his chagrin, is frequently assumed to be a slave when Lykomedes' daughters appear. "Dad's still pretty steamed," she says without prologue, dragging a chair over and sitting down.

Achilles shrugs. "Yeah, but is anybody _dead_?"

"Medon might die of mortification, which I would frankly be fine with," Deidamia says. "You broke his nose, and he's still got fabric twisted up in there."

"He shouldn'ta grabbed my ass, then." Achilles snorts at the mental image of Prince Medon with bloody rags issuing from his nose. "Maybe he'll think before he does it again."

"I'm supposed to tell you you can't go around _hitting_ people," Deidamia says, though she rolls her eyes as if she knows the futility of this exercise. "Dad says he can't even look at you right now."

"I _don't_ go around hitting people. Wouldn'ta happened if he'd kept his hands to himself."

Deidamia can't argue with this logic – she's long dreaded the approach of Medon and his octopus-like hands, which seem to be everywhere. It's past time somebody gave him what's coming to him, and she isn't really surprised that it was Achilles. "In my role as Dad's mouthpiece, be that as it may, we—"

Calyx pokes her head in. "Merchants here from the mainland," she tells her sister and her "sister". "If you want to buy anything."

Deidamia, who does not relish playing Iris to her father's Zeus, stands up. "I might look." Travelers and merchants are almost the only form of entertainment they have, aside from the odd festival. She rarely buys; if you've seen one spread, you've seen them all, and Deidamia is not inclined to the womanly crafts. Still, someone will want her opinion on colors or finishes.

"Nothing for me," Achilles says. "You go." The merchants are unlikely to have anything he wants; it tends to be household goods, because everyone needs them and they can turn an easy profit. When they come to houses like Lykomedes', they're heavy on the feminine accoutrements, but there's little for someone like him.

"You're no fun," Calyx says. "Anyway, I'm downstairs if anyone wants me."

"Have fun," Achilles says dully.

"Come on," Deidamia says. "You never know, they might have something interesting this time."

Achilles contemplates, and then swings his legs off the windowsill. "Reckon it wouldn't kill me," he says, following her downstairs. He can already hear the merchants' voices rising in patter.


End file.
